Blood Lance (11 page)

“By order of the Lord Sheriff,” grumbled the one with the swollen thumb. “And if you don’t want to find yourself in Newgate this night, you’ll move along.”

He watched them for a moment more before he quit them and went next door to the haberdasher, who was yet to be talked to. If there was much ado in the armorer’s, surely
they
would have heard.

He passed through the archway. A wire-thin man was bent over a bench with a wooden form. Wool batting stuck through the loose seams of dark blue material wound about the form, and the man was carefully stitching a long liripipe tail to what would become a roundel hat.

“I beg your pardon, good master,” said Crispin with a bow.

The man continued on without acknowledgement of Crispin’s presence.

Crispin cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon,” he said a bit louder.

Still, the man worked on.

Either the haberdasher was being insulting or …

Crispin reached out and touched the man’s shoulder. He jumped so abruptly he fell off his stool. Crispin knelt to help him up.

“Why by God’s teeth are you creeping up on a man like that!” he accused.

Crispin brushed the dust off the man’s gown and bowed. “I beg your pardon.”

“Eh?”

“I said, I beg your pardon?”

“What? Speak up. I can’t countenance mumbling.”

“I SAID, I BEG YOUR PARDON.”

“No need to shout, young man.”

Crispin sighed.

It took a great deal more shouting before Crispin discovered from the nearly deaf craftsman that not only had he heard nothing the night of the murder but he did not even know the armorer was dead.

“How did he die?”

“I BELIEVE HE WAS MURDERED.”

“Murdered? By Saint Agatha, bless us all.”

“HAD YOU ANY REASON TO BELIEVE HE TOOK HIS OWN LIFE?”

“Eh? I thought you said he was murdered. I don’t hear well, you know.”

“Yes, I know. BUT THERE WERE SOME WHO THOUGHT AT FIRST HE MIGHT HAVE DONE IT HIMSELF.”

The man shook his head. “No. Not Roger Grey. He was a robust man. A man of ambition. He would never do such a thing. I was under the impression he expected a windfall and had planned to leave London.”

The third time someone had said as much, yet his betrothed said it was not so.

Crispin thanked the man, walked out of the shop, and headed for the tailor only two doors away.

Master Coterel was at his bench, carefully sewing a sleeve for a blue and as yet sleeveless cotehardie hanging from a straw-stuffed mannequin. The coat was still in a raw stage with seams open and chalk marks where pleats would be added. Crispin realized this was to be Jack’s new coat. He looked it over, running his hands along the shoulders. A fine coat. The man was a decent tailor, at least. “Master Coterel,” he said softly, not wishing for a repeat of the scene at the haberdasher’s.

The man glanced up and put his sewing aside. “Master Guest. You’re back. What may I do for you?”

Anabel peeked down the stairs and soon she trotted down the treads to stand on the bottom step. She patted her hair under its kerchief. Those large eyes looked him up and down again.

He noticed a window overlooking the Thames, similar to the one in the armorer’s shop. “I had hoped to look again in Master Grey’s shop for more clues, but the sheriffs’ men are locking it up tight.”

“Yes,” she said, approaching him. “I saw that. I begged them not to but they refused. What will you do?”

In answer, he walked to the window and opened the shutters. The Thames rushed briskly below. It wouldn’t be low tide until Compline.

He looked to his right, and not too far away—about five feet, by his reckoning—was the armorer’s window. The shops cantilevered out over the Thames. He could not see the base of the bridge below him except for the piers in the midst of the water, but there were corbels jutting out from the shop foundation beams running every two feet. It would have to do.

He leapt onto the sill and climbed down to the first corbel. Anabel screamed, as did her father, and they both dashed to the window and leaned over. She reached out with her arms. “Sir! What are you doing? Come back inside!”

“I must get into the shop next door. Short of climbing down his chimney—which I do not think a wise choice—this is my only way in.”

“But … but—” Her eyes were wide in fear, taking in the whitecaps of the Thames below.

“Master Crispin!” cried Robert Coterel. “Don’t be a fool, sir. Return to the safety of our shop.”

Crispin held on to the half-timbering of the outer walls. The mud and plaster that swathed the wattle beneath had been worn away by the weather and by the harsh water, and there were plenty of handholds. He dug his fingers into the threaded sticks and carefully stepped to the next corbel. It didn’t take him long to reach the armorer’s window. But as he suspected, it was barred. He took his knife from its sheath and slipped it between the crease of the shutter and lifted it as high as he could. Fortunately, the bar was a handy height and he slipped it up and off. He sheathed his knife and easily pulled the shutter open. With a toe in the wattle he lifted himself up onto the sill, and dropped nimbly onto the floor.

“No! Anabel!”

Crispin stuck his head out to see what the tailor was yelling about and saw the woman making her way as he had done over the corbels. She had rucked up her skirts, exposing blue stockings gartered just below the knee, with a bit of pale leg visible above. “What the hell do you think you are doing?” he cried.

She spared him one swift glance before she turned back to the wall, concentrating on where to put her hands and feet as she carefully but deftly made her way closer to him. “I will go with you,” she said breathlessly. “I want to help you find Roger’s slayer.”

He was about to chastise her again, forbid her to come along, but she was already past the halfway point. Damn the woman! Frustrated but admiring her at the same time, he held out his hand until she was able to grab hold of it.

He yanked her up and hauled her unsteadily over the side, depositing her none too gently onto the floor.

He helped her up and scowled. “That was an extremely foolish thing to do.”

She pulled her skirt into order again, hiding her legs. “Foolish for you, or foolish for me?”

He did not answer, but turned instead to the room. At least the sheriffs’ men did not seem to have disturbed the room’s contents. “You say you searched here for the money he said he was to loan you?”

“Below, yes, but I never made it upstairs. You arrived first.”

“The bedroom is a likely place.”

“True, but he was a most unusual man. He kept his strongbox down below.”

“Do you see it anywhere here?”

“It would be hidden.”

“But you don’t know where.”

She cast her gaze down for a moment. “I did not know if I could trust you before. I know where it is hidden.”

He clenched his jaw. Women. Duplicitous at the very least. And to think he had paid her rent. “Show me.”

She picked her way over the pieces of discarded armor, trying not to disturb them. Moving back toward the large window overlooking the Thames, she faced the wall beside it instead and stood before the only item left hanging on the wall: a small round shield, a buckler, made of leather with a shiny metal central boss. He wondered why it hadn’t been touched, but as he watched her he reasoned out why. The buckler was somehow attached to the wall in such a way as to prevent anyone from simply tearing it free. Reaching forward, her hands closed over its opposing edges and with a quick jerk, she turned it in place. A click and it swung away, revealing a small door—no bigger than a rabbit’s hole—situated in the wall. In the center of the door sat a brass lock.

She gave Crispin a smile that made him realize why Roger Grey had cast his eye toward her. But her smile of triumph was short-lived. “I don’t have the key,” she said.

Crispin gently nudged her aside. “We won’t need one.” He unbuttoned his coat and pulled out the lace to his chemise. He raised the long, metal point at the end of the lace along with the tip of his knife, and slipped them both into the keyhole. Closing his eyes, he manipulated them in the lock until he could feel the lock pins falling into place. The lock clicked and the door whispered open.

She looked at him in shock. “You’re a slippery fellow, Crispin Guest.”

He raised a brow, but said nothing. He opened the door wider, half-expecting to find the relic—whatever it might be. But the space was empty. Not even a money pouch.

Strange. There should at least be some coins inside, for, no doubt, the man did good business and the wares were expensive.

“Nothing.” He gauged her perplexed expression.

Crispin headed toward the stairs. “His chamber was up here?”

She nodded again, following him.

“Damosel, perhaps, under the circumstances, you should stay here.”

They both were thinking of the missing apprentices, but she raised her chin. “No. I shall go with you.”

“Very well. But stay behind me.” Crispin drew his dagger again and carefully crept up the stairs. Once his head cleared the floor he scanned the darkened room but saw no one lurking.

Nor any bodies. If Grey’s apprentices never showed again, he suspected that their bodies had been carried far down the river with no chance of recovery.

He hastened up the stairs. Strangely, the room looked relatively untouched. Not sacked as the room downstairs, but there was still some disarray. The mattress was rolled back, the bedhead flipped to the side. Clothes seemed to flow from the coffer. Though they were not thrown about, someone had definitely searched through them.

“Light a candle,” he told her, and she quickly ran to comply.

A moment later she was back, but instead of handing the candle to him, she held it just over the floor and made a circle, examining. “No blood,” she declared.

He stared at her anew. “Just what I was thinking.” He opened his hand to her. Reluctantly, she gave him the candle.

A crash below.

Crispin pushed her behind him and blew out the candle. His dagger was ready when he slowly made for the stairs. But before he could get down, a ginger head popped up.

“Master Crispin? What, by the devil’s own bollocks, are you doing?”

“Language, Jack. Mistress Anabel is present.”

“Oh!” He spied Anabel in the dark, smirking at him. “Beg pardon, damosel.”

“How did you get in?”

“The same way you did, Master. The foolhardy way.” Jack grinned and climbed up the stairs to join them. He took the candle from Crispin’s hand and found the tinderbox. The wick fizzled and the room was framed again by the small candle’s nimbus of light. “Blind me! Aye, they were looking for something.”

Crispin’s boot turned over a chemise lying on the floor. “The question is, did they find it?” He turned to Anabel. “Did Roger Grey tell you of a relic he had obtained for his client?”

“You seek a relic? Roger never said anything of it to me, but he did say that he expected a windfall. That through careful plotting he would soon see great rewards.” She looked about the room, rather sadly, he thought.

“But you say he made no mention of leaving London?”

“He never said such to me.”

“Mmm.” Crispin stared into the rafters. “What relic would suit a knight, I wonder? Any idea, damosel?”

She shook her head. “A relic of St. George, perhaps?”

“Possibly. But I know of none that would make a man invincible. Sir Thomas seemed to hold great store by it.”

“He was your friend?” she asked.

Crispin hesitated. It wasn’t something he wished to dwell on. “Yes. Years ago.”

“I hope, for your sake, you find this thing he desires. But I wish to know whether you intend to find Roger’s killer.”

She was undaunted and faced him squarely.

“So now you believe he was murdered?” She shrugged. “I assure you, damosel, that this thief is foremost in my mind. For I believe it is he—or she,” he said with a nod toward Jack, “who killed him.”

“For a relic? God save us all.” She becrossed herself.

“Believe, me, damosel, I have seen worse associated with relics.”

Jack poked through the coffer. “What else could it be, Master? Blood? Hair of a saint?”

“Sir Thomas said it was something suited to a knight. What is associated with a knight?”

“A sword,” said Jack.

“A helm,” said Anabel.

Crispin sniffed his runny nose. “Let us look to the armor below.”

They tromped down the stairs and began collecting all the loose pieces of armor. There were several breastplates, even more greaves, and various other pieces that would make up the full harness for a knight.

Jack found a splendid spear handle of wood covered with silver that was decorated with bas-relief designs of knights on horseback. It had yet to be fitted with its sharpened point. He held it up for his master but Crispin shook his head.

A pair of sabatons, armor for the feet, were fashioned with expertise and elegance, articulated so the foot could move easily. Crispin held them for a moment, wistful, before setting them gently aside.

One breastplate lying on its side caught his attention. On it was incised the delicate pattern of a blazon, the arms of Thomas Saunfayl. He picked it up and ran his fingers along the raised design.

“This would appear to belong to Sir Thomas, my friend. Did you know anything of this work?” he asked her.

“Roger was in the business of making armor. I would not have known these arms from any other.”

The breastplate was still shiny and was shaped so that a lance or arrow would glance easily off its planed surface. Clean lines, understated styling. Crispin would be proud to wear such a thing … were he allowed to, that is.

“I must inform Sir Thomas that his armor, at least, is here.” He laid it carefully on the worktable.

“If a man were to kill another to steal something he possessed,” Anabel began, taking care stacking like pieces of armor together as she had, no doubt, seen her betrothed do, “What would he do with the stolen object? Sell it? Keep it for himself?”

Crispin examined a carved and bejeweled metal dagger sheath. “Both are possibilities. But in my experience, a coveted object like a relic is often stolen to keep.”